36 Symbols and a Bored Sociopath
by Stelmariana
Summary: Sherlock and John get a new flatmate. Meanwhile, Sir Charles Latrom has stolen Lyra's Alethiometer. Will and Lyra can't go on without it. The only person that can help them is a currently bored and sulking sociopath genius. Can anyone guess who that might be? No pairings.
1. Chapter 1

**Brief/summary:****Sherlock and John get a new flatmate. Meanwhile, Sir Charles Latrom has stolen Lyra's Alethiometer. Will and Lyra can't go on without it. The only person that can help them is a currently bored and sulking sociopath genius. Can anyone guess who that might be? No pairings. Northern lights/Sherlock crossover.**

Chapter 1

Stella's POV:

The sun was bright, the air brisk, the cafe warm and noisy. The perfect day, the perfect place to re-enter society.

Stella drained the last of her iced coffee in one gulp, tossed a five-pound note on the table and left the area without looking back.

She was only just back from the Ishikari mountains in Japan, where she had been teaching martial arts to children in an orphanage high up in the wilderness. Six years completely cut off from civilization was a long time. Yet, Stella had loved every bit of it, the teaching, the language, the people, the school, the weather, the children... Oh, especially the children. How she missed them already! When Stella closed her eyes, she could still see them, still feel their little hands clinging to her arms, begging her not to go. The children she had grown to love as her own...

Full of nostalgia, Stella ambled through the streets, with no fixed destination in mind. She strolled leisurely across a park, watching the ducks and swans competing for the bread that toddlers and their mothers threw at them. Stella wondered where she would go back to at the end of the day, she had no-where to go now. Her sister had moved to France, and her parents had retired to Australia.

Stella sat on a bench, staring into space. She felt strange. She should be happy to be back in her native country, yet she felt empty and drained, as if life held nothing more for her. Stella lost track of time as she sat there, her mind wandering. When she finally got up, an hour as well as a minute could have gone by.

As she was about to leave the park, she heard a voice call her name.

"Stella!" the voice called.

She turned. A man came running up to her. Stella frowned a little, he seemed familiar somehow.

The man caught up with her. He grinned broadly.

"Stella", he said, a litle breathlessly, "you've come back."

Stella stared. "I'm sorry sir," she said hesitantly, "I don't recognise you."

The man laughed.

"No wonder! We haven't seen each other for, what, ten years? I'm John, John Watson. We were best friends at school."

Stella's mouth dropped open. Then she squealed and threw her arms around a surprised, but equally pleased John.

"Oh my gawd!" she shrieked excitedly. "How could've I not recognised you? John! I'm so happy to see you!"

John laughed again, hugging her back, "I know, I know. Long time no see."

He pulled back and looked her up and down.

"You look good. Haven't aged a year." he commented, his medical eye kicking in.

Stella beamed. "You too." she said.

It was true. John seemed fit and healthy, his slightly haunted look from when he had been fighting in Afghanistan gone, his eyes shining, his limp vanished.

"Where have you been? I haven't heard from you for six years." he asked curiously.

Stella smiled a little sadly. "I've been abroad." she said. "Out in Japan, teaching."

John looked mildly surprised. "Teaching? What did you teach?"

Stella grinned, a sparkle in her eye. "Martial Arts."

John rolled his eyes, but smiled. It was a long-standing joke between them. When they had been at school together, they had argued for hours about what was better worth knowing: basic First Aid actions, or self-defence. It seemed like Stella had won.

Still slightly euphoric about having found each other again, they walked around the park together, all the while in deep conversation. They talked about John's military service ("No they _didn't_ chuck me out Stella, I chose to leave"), the orphanage she had lived in for the past years ("Honestly, you'd think you enjoyed driving everyone nuts by not sending news"), John's current job, Stella's ex-students("A load of trouble-makers, that's what they are" she said fondly), life in general, and Stella's plans for the future.

"So" John said, "where are you going back to?"

"Oh, probably somewhere around here..." she said vaguely.

John stopped walking. He looked at her with concern.

"You do have somewhere to go, don't you?"

Stella half-smiled and shrugged. "My family left England altogether. I'll just check into a hotel somewhere."

John stared at her and shook his head. "Nope." he said firmly.

Stella looked confused.

"What do you mean?" she said, frowning slightly.

"You don't actually expect me to let you fend for yourself when you've only just come back from abroad, with no family or friends to go to, and nowhere to stay, do you?" he said, looking astounded. "No. You're coming back home with me. You can stay the night there and we'll decide what to do in the morning."

Stella didn't say anything for a few seconds, not daring to believe her luck at having found such a sweet and caring childhood friend again.

Then, "You mean it?"

John laughed. "Stella!" he said exasperatedly but with a smile, "I do believe that's the least a friend could do for another!"

Stella grinned, and hugged him.

"All right then," she said happily, linking arms with him,"let's go get my suitcase."

They walked together back to the hotel Stella had left her luggage in, all the while chatting amiably.

When they finally arrived at the _Golf Hotel,_ and Stella had retreived her case (just a small one, she hadn't owned much in Japan), they made their way to 221B Baker Street, where John lived.

As they neared the flat, John got quieter and quieter. Only when Stella failed to get a response three times did she ask him what was wrong.

"Er... Nothing. Not really" he muttered.

Stella stopped, and grabbed his arm.

"Tell me." she said firmly.

John looked embarrassed, then anxious, then resigned.

"Fine." he sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Look, I live in a flat at Baker Street with a flatmate. A guy."

Stella raised an eyebrow. "So?"

"Well... he's a bit... strange. Or no, not strange, just...different."

"What, do you mean he's retarded?"

"No. No, actually it's the opposite, he's a bloody genius, and he sees the rest of the world as 'stupid' because they don't think and notice things the way he does, and he's a bit, well... rude. Ish."

Stella nodded slowly. "And... are you two a couple?"

John looked horrified. "No! God No! He's my best friend, and can be a real prick when he wants to, but no we're not a couple. I'm straight. And... well, that's another thing about him, Mrs Hudson (she's the landlady, by the way) and I don't know whether he is or not. I mean he's never shown any interest whatsoever towards women, but, come to that, never to men either. He's kind of assexual, we think. Anyway, the point is, we're not together." he gabbled quickly.

Stella smiled. It seemed all-right to her.

"I'm sure we'll get along fine." she reassured him.

John looked as if he highly doubted that, but didn't press the matter, and unlocked the door for her to get in first.

"Mrs Hudson!" John called, whilst putting Stella's coat along with his own on the coat pegs.

A little middle-aged lady tottered out of her flat, an apron hanging loosely from her neck and her forearms covered in flour.

"John, dear" she trilled delightedly, "You quite startled me. I was just in the middle of– Oh, hello dear, are you a friend of this scoundrel?" she asked, beaming fondly at John, then at Stella.

John introduced Stella to Mrs Hudson, who immediately started talking to her about the weather, the appalling staff at Tesco's, whether to put chocolate or coffee in her cake,…

When Mrs Hudson finally retreated into her flat, ("Got to dash! The oven's ready!"), John led Stella upstairs and opened the door of the flat for her.

As Stella stepped into 221B Baker Street, her first impression was the horrific mess that was scattered everywhere. The next impression was of the acrid, burning smell that was coming from the kitchen. The last, was of the long-limbed, tall, dark figure that staggered out of the kitchen, coughing, wrestling lab goggles off his eyes.

Behind her, John cursed and rushed towards the figure.

"Sherlock!" he cried. "Sherlock, are you all right? What the hell were you doing?"

The figure, or rather, Sherlock, straightened, still coughing a little.

"I'm fine," he said a bit croakily, "Absolutely fine. Just an experiment that … well… I just found another way not to do it."

With that, he turned around and marched into what Stella assumed to be his room, without so much as a glance towards her.

John gaped after him, then, snapping back to reality, ran into the kitchen, which, by now, had white smoke creeping out of it, the acrid smell still burning Stella's nose.

Stella followed suite, wondering what on Earth the kitchen would look like when Sherlock had tampered with it.

She stopped in the doorway, petrified. So this was what a kitchen looked like after a failed experiment: bottles and phials all around the counter, microscopes and strange instruments on the table, things that looked suspiciously like human fingers tumbling out of the open fridge, and thick white smoke drifting everywhere.

John was standing in the middle of it all. Stella noted with surprise that he had a relieved expression on his face, rather than the downright horror she had expected to see.

"Well," he said lightly, "at least he hasn't blown up the kettle or melted human eyes this time."

Stella glanced at him. Surely he was joking?

Reading her thoughts, John smiled grimly.

"Nope, not joking. It actually happened once."

Stella couldn't find anything to say to that, so she looked around and spotted a window. She strode over and unlatched it, sticking her head out to gulp greedily at some fresh air.

When Stella pulled her head back in and turned around, she saw that John had picked up a sponge and had started to tidy up. She hurried over to help, and started to mop up the acid-like substance that had spilled to the floor when a phial had been knocked over.

"Oh no," John said, taking the mop from her. "No, this isn't for you to do."

Stella opened her mouth to point out that it wasn't for John to do it either, but she changed her mind and settled to frowning stubbornly instead.

"I want to help." She said firmly.

John sighed and ran a hand over the back of his neck, looking exhausted. Then he smiled.

"Fine. If you really want to help, you can make us a cup of tea; that alright with you?"

Stella was about to protest, when she saw the sense in what John said, so she closed her mouth again and went to fill the kettle with water.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Half an hour and five cups of tea later, John and Stella had returned the kitchen to more-or-less its' usual state.

Together they flopped down onto the sofa, and, glancing at each other, started laughing shakily.

"What was that all about?" Stella managed to say between splutters of laughter.

John calmed down a bit and sat up a little straighter. He looked tired again, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Sherlock… gets bored easily. And when he does, it's rather bad news for the things he's decided to experiment on."

Stella nodded. She couldn't really see any other way to react.

"And… what was the experiment this time?"

"Er… how long it takes for a rubber ball covered in acid to blow up once it's set alight I think."

Stella couldn't help it. She burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles again, and couldn't stop for two whole minutes.

Stella slowly calmed down, and, between hiccups, asked John if he wanted another cup of tea.

John grinned. "You bet. But I'll make it this time."

So Stella waited on the couch while John cluttered around the kitchen, making the said cups of tea.

Suddenly, she noticed the tall figure leaning in the doorway, staring at her. Sherlock had changed and washed; and now that he wasn't wearing any lab goggles, Stella could clearly see his piercing, ice-blue eyes flitting all over her, as if reading her very soul. Stella squirmed, not at all comfortable under such scrutiny.

He didn't move when he saw that Stella had noticed him, but continued to dissect her with his eyes.

Thankfully, at that moment John came in, carrying a tray with three cups, a teapot, and a plate of biscuits.

John nodded at Sherlock, who still hadn't moved.

"Sherlock, this is Stella, an—"

"An old friend of yours," completed Sherlock unexpectedly.

John hardly looked surprised. In fact, he looked resigned. He placed the tray on the coffee table, and sat in his armchair by the fireplace, ignoring Stella's surprised and questioning look.

He glanced expectedly at Sherlock. "Go on." he said simply.

"An old friend of yours," Sherlock reiterated, " from school, or more accurately from university, clearly just back from abroad, more precisely from Japan, where she taught martial arts to children, whom she dearly misses since her departure. She was walking in the park shortly before she met you. You invited her to stay over here, possibly because you wanted to be polite to an old friend, more likely because she has nowhere familiar to go to. You went to collect her suitcase at a hotel together and came straight over here. She's also not your girlfriend."

Stella's mouth had dropped open as soon as Sherlock had said "Japan". She gaped at him, then at John, silently asking him for an explanation.

John said nothing, but merely pointed at Sherlock.

The latter started pacing in front of the fireplace, hands behind his back, and a smug smirk on his face.

"The first bit is simple, John goes out this morning, without a single mention of meeting an old friend today, yet comes back with a young lady, clearly just back from abroad. How do I know you know each other from school? There is an old picture of John's in his album, showing his graduation with his friends. The names of his said friends are all on the back of the photograph, having been signed by all of them. One name says Stella; there are a surprisingly low number of Stellas these days, and the odds that John, not being very social, could have known more than one are very small. How do I know that you come from abroad? The tag on the luggage says that you have just flown in from Tokyo and arrived yesterday, also added to the fact that your skin is tanned, when there hasn't been any sunshine in the United Kingdom for the past two weeks. How do I know you didn't go on a sunbed? The process is expensive, and, according to your clothes and size of luggage, you do not have much money or posessions, which, in itself, suggests a poorly paid job, such as teaching. This was confirmed by the fact that your hand is covered in writing, a habit that most students and teachers adopt to help themselves remember things. You taught martial arts to children. This was deduced by the way you hold yourself, upright and alert, also your stance is poised, always ready for attack, a few classic symptons of a master of defence. How do I know you were teaching children? Simple: the string bracelet on your wrist; too tacky for a young woman nowadays, but exactly the kind of farewell present poor children would give to a well-loved teacher. The threads of the bracelet are softened and used, but not paled, which suggests that the bracelet is new, not old, but has been touched and fingered a lot. The fact that it has been fingered a lot suggests regret, or love, clearly in this case linking to the fact that you miss your students dearly. The mud on your shoes says that you have been wondering in the park, more precisely on the grass, because where else do you get mud in London? Yet the mud is still slightly damp, which means that you can't have been there long before John found you and you both came here. John's shoes have got mud on them too, but much less of it, which means that you were there longer than him, suggesting he found you there well after you first arrived. There is no mud on the soles of your shoes, pointing to the fact that you had a reasonable distance to cover before you came here, probably to get your case back from the hotel, which also points out that John must have invited you to stay, because why else would you collect your case to come here?"

It was several seconds before Stella found her voice again. When she finally found it, what she came out with wasn't very impressive.

"Wow... I... Just how did you... wow." she stuttered, barely comprehensibly.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth lifted slightly, which, as John later said, was his version of a "grin of triumph".

Then John spoke up.

"You also said she wasn't my girlfriend." he recalled. "I'm not saying she is, but how would you have known that?"

Sherlock smiled and gave him a knowing look.

"Oh, come now John, you know perfectly well that you prevent any girlfriend of yours from ever coming to this flat in the fear that she would meet me."

"Well who could ever blame me for that?" muttered John under his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

**Author's note:**** The characters from "His Dark Materials" will come in soon. This is just a chapter with a few drabbles on how Stella's life is with her new flatmates, it isn't really part of the story. Hope you enjoy it!**

Years later, when Stella thought back, she could never have said when they had decided that she would stay for good at 221B Baker Street with John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

Over the days, weeks, and months, Stella had become used to Sherlock's peculiar behaviour, his explosive mood swings (and just as explosive experiments), his rudeness, his occcasional silences sometimes stretching for days on end, him bringing back home body bits from the morgue ("I don't care what you are doing with them, Sherlock, but you are NOT putting them in the fridge!"), his weird eating habits (" You _cannot_ be serious about eating chinese takeaway at five in the morning!"), his fights with Anderson ("I couldn't care less about what he called you Sherlock, but whatever it was, it was no reason for proving how he had cheated on Donovan and his wife with four successive women"), and John's accomodation to it all.

Stella still of course missed her little japanese students and the orphanage itself, but she rather liked her new life in London; she was now being well-paid by teaching karate and judo to teenagers in a private school, she occasionally helped Sherlock with his cases (He soon found her quick eye, sense of observation and extensive memory quite useful, although he would never admit it), and sometimes covered nurses at John's clinic when they needed replacement for a few days.

Of course, there was always a little argument that occasionally went off in their flat, but these were minor, and Stella had grown to love her two flatmates as brothers.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"John! Stella is leaking!"

John jumped out of bed, adrenalin pumping through his veins, wondering what on earth Sherlock was talking about. Was Stella bleeding? Or had a bead of sweat gone astray?

He raced into the kitchen, ready to find a solution to any kind of problem as long as someone wasn't dead.

"What's happening? What's the matter with Stella?"

Only then did John notice that Sherlock was hiding behind the door, his head peeking round it, a snorkling mask on his face and oven mitts on his hands. In response to John, he pointed urgently at Stella, who was sitting at the table, her head supported by one arm propped on the table, eyes half-closed, with a mug of steaming tea in the other hand.

John's adrenalin fizzed into non-existence as he realized what was the matter. He went over to Stella, felt her forehead, and found it far too hot. He sighed and went to make them some tea.

"Stella? What's the matter? How do you feel?"

Stella half-raised her head and looked at John with red-rimmed and exhausted eyes.

"Tired. M'aching everywhere. Throat hurts. Hot and cold. Headache's really bad."

John clicked his tongue sympathetically.

"It's nothing, just a spot of flu. I'll get you some antibiotics at the clinic." he said reassuringly. Then he turned to his other flatmate. "As for you Sherlock, why did you have to yell the house down in order for me to come? Couldn't you see poor Stella was sick? Surely you, out of all pople could see that a person has a cold!"

Sherlock, who was now busy stripping off his protective gear now that he was sure that Stella's problem wasn't dangerous, shot John an absent look.

"Must've deleted it." he said vaguely, flapping his hands (still holding the equipment) around dismissively.

John rolled his eyes and proceded to making breakfast.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"N-O spells no, Sherlock."

"But it's the only way! You've got to do it!" Sherlock whined.

"What did I just say? Use that massive brain of yours and come up with a conclusion."

Sherlock pouted. Stella had to look away and quickly think of disasters to stop herself from laughing; for all his high-and mighty attitude and huge brain-power, Sherlock worked just like a four-year-old. Refuse to give him what he wants, and he'll carry on pestering you until he gives up and starts sulking, which could sometimes stretch on for days.

In this case, Sherlock was trying to persuade Stella into entering a charity dance show, which was raising money to send to children in Africa. It was also, as a matter of fact, the only way Sherlock could access the people working there and all the preparations in order to solve a particularly tricky, even by Sherlock's standards, case. If Stella signed up for the show, she would get two tickets free for friends and family, and, of course, access to all the rooms and equipment that had to do with it.

A week previously, Sherlock had whirled into the flat in a black mood, shouting to nobody in particular that his genius was wasted on such trivial details. It had taken three hours of screeching violin and fifteen cups of tea to calm him down enough to get him to explain what was wrong.

"I need evidence. Proof that my theory is exact. And the only man that can supply that is involved full-time in some kind of clown-act in a charity dance show," Sherlock had snapped. "Which," he had added, "is completely out of bounds to anyone who isn't involved in it or hasn't something to do with someone who is."

Stella and John had been confused at this. Couldn't Sherlock just lie, act or sneak his way into the backstage, just like he did everywhere else all the time? Sherlock's only reply to this had been a bitter "Mycroft", which of course, explained it: Mycroft had sworn to never again get rid of all the trouble Sherlock got himself into (on an almost daily basis) if Sherlock continued to forge security sytems in order to gain access to whatever he wanted.

Since, Sherlock had been trying to persuade Stella, and, of all people, _John_, to enter the dance show so that he could enter the place without being arrested. This grand idea had occurred to Sherlock when John and Stella had been sitting at the table laughing at old photographs of when they were at school. One of them had shown them amidst a group of people in formal clothes, obviously going to a ball of some sorts.

"Wait, wait, wait," Sherlock had said, a light of excitement beginnig to shine in his eyes. "You two can dance?"

Both had blushed slightly, and John had mumbled something about them winning the School Senior Dance Competition in college.

Since then, Stella had lost count of the times John had groaned that he regretted saying that.

After half-an-hour of silence, Stella sighed and closed her laptop, glad that Sherlock wasn't bothering her any more. She stood up, stretched, and opened the front door to go out for lunch.

"Please."

Stella turned around, not entirely sure of what she had just heard. Sherlock had his back to her, curled up in the sofa.

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock grimaced. He hated giving in to manners.

"Please... please do it." he muttered.

Stella stared. In the whole year she had lived with John and Sherlock in Baker Street, she had never yet heard him say 'please'.

"Sherlock... are you sure you're all right?" Stella asked, a grin beginning to form on her face.

"I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped.

Stella stayed silent, leaning against the doorway, waiting for him to make the next move.

Sherlock didn't look up when he next spoke.

"It's my only way of solving the case. And I don't know anyone else I feel comfortable with asking them to enter the show. You and John are the only ones."

Stella made her face stay impassive. "What about Lestrade? Or Molly?" she asked, keeping her voice light and even.

Sherlock gave Stella his _don't be stupid _look at the mention of Lestrade, and his sarcastic r_eally?_ look when he heard the name 'Molly'. He shook his head, turning back to staring at the blank tv screen.

Stella took a deep breath and sighed. What wouldn't she do for her annoying but loveable flatmate?

"Fine." she resigned. "I'll think about it. And talk it over with John."

Sherlock suddenly leapt off the sofa and gave Stella a dazzling smile. He reminded Stella of a child who had suddenly got permission to get a puppy.

"Excellent!" he cried, rubbing his hands together and sprinting off to his room.

Stella tried hard not to regret what she had promised, but it was difficult.

"Well", she thought, trying to reassure herself, "at least he hasn't asked me to date Mycroft in order to get to some secret files or something."

"Yet" she tried not to think of adding.

"I am _so _not doing this." John said in a hollow voice.

Stella stared around the room. She had to admit that the prospects of this were hardly appealing. The room was full of chattering people, all in brightly coloured costumes, with music playing from the hi-fi machine in the corner. Dozens of children were babbling excitedly about make-up and dance routines. Everyone looked at John and Stella like they were the new kids in school.

Stella had talked to John about the dancing show, and explained that it was indeed Sherlock's only way of solving the case. John had proven to be quite hard at persuading, but had softened when Stella had told him that Sherlock considered them the only people he trusted and felt comfortable with asking. Sherlock had reacted like Christmas had come early. He barely waited for John to finish his sentence before whisking all of three of them away in the first cab they found.

The gymnasium the charity people had rented to practice the acts in was huge, the echoes of voices sounding very loud, even with all the music.

Sherlock had calmed down, and was looking around with a bored expression on his face, as though it had been completely against his will that he had come here. John was looking dazed, and was watching a dozen six-year-old children dancing the macarena with a blank look. Stella was tapping her foot impatiently, beginning to wonder why she had ever even condsidered accepting Sherlock's request.

Then Stella spotted a man striding over to them. He was tall, wearing an absurdly bright costume with flowing sleeves and flaring trouser-legs, the shades of red, orange and yellow clashing magnificently with the beetroot hue of his cheeks. A huge golden medallion hung around his neck onto his chest, which was almost bare because his shirt was almost entirely unbuttoned. He was fixing the newcomers with a beady eye and a smile that American TV hosts usually wear when they came onto the stage. He held out his arms as he approached.

"Ah! New people!" he cried, with a heavy french accent. "I see you 'ave caught wind of our leettle event to send money over to ze Poor Starving Cheeldren in Africa. You 'ave come here to dance, yes?"

The question was accompanied by a wide smile, leaving Stella and John no other option but to nod.

The tall man beamed and threw an arm over both their shoulders, frog-marching them over to a middle-aged woman who was holding a leather handbag and an impossibly huge clipboard. She peered at them over the top of her acid-green glasses, a pencil poised over the sheet attached to her said clipboard.

"Mariette!" the french man hollered excitedly at her, "I 'ave some newcomers! Excellent news, _non_?"

The lady, Mariette, nodded briskly and marched over to them.

"Right. What are your names?" she queried in a slightly less-accented english.

Stella managed to gasp her name under the grip of the french man.

Mariette nodded and made a note on her sheet. She looked fondly at the man.

"Jean-Louis, let go of these poor people. You are half-suffocating them."

Jean-Louis looked horrified and immediately released Stella and John, who by now, had turned purple.

"John." croaked a gasping John.

Sherlock, who had followed after them, smirked.

"These two have... ahem... volunteered to do a dance on your show." he said, ignoring Stella's and John's glares.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Jean-Louis. "We would be delighted, _n'est-ce-pas_ Mariette?"

Mariette looked doubtfully at John who was still panting, and at Stella who by now was looking as if she was thoroughly regretting to have come, but she nodded, giving a forced enthusiastic smile.

"We'll see what we can do with them." she said, with a little more determination.

"Excellent." said Sherlock briskly. "Well, I'll leave you to it then."

And he strolled off, seemingly without noticing the daggers Stella and John were shooting at his back.

"Right," said a beamingJean-Louis, rubbing his hands together. "Where do we begeen? What kind of dance can you two do reasonably well?"

Stella and John glanced at each other, then smiled, slightly embarrassed.

John shrugged. "I remember the cha-cha, but my favourite was always salsa."

Stella nodded. "Me too. It's the dance I can remember best and I've always really enjoyed it."

"Breelliant! We shall start imeediately, then!" exclaimed Jean-Louis.

"No, Sherlock. We're not going to tell you what the costumes are like, nor what dance we'll do, not even the music soundtrack."

"But why?" Sherlock whined.

"Because you got us into this mess in the first place." said Stella flatly, her eyes not leaving the newspaper she was reading.

Sherlock pouted, looking like a toddler who didn't get any ice-cream on his beach trip.

The room stayed silent for a few minutes. John was updating his blog, Stella was reading the morning's paper, and Sherlock had been, until ten minutes ago, working on an experiment which involved jam, human fingers, and citric acid.

The concert was a week away now, and Stella and John were dedicating three hours of their afternoons each day to practice their dance. Each evening they returned exhausted, but nevertheless happy with their progress. They had, by an unspoken agreement, resolved not to let slip a single clue about the whole thing to Sherlock, which had been considered his punishment for leading them into this.

"Oh for pity's sake Sherlock!" exclaimed Stella for the third time in fifteen minutes, "Stop doing that all the time, we're the ones who are supposed to be nervous!"

Sherlock was pacing across the small room that John and Stella had retired to in order to prepare themselves for later on. It was the grand night, the concert was happening that very evening.

Sherlock didn't say anything for a few moments, but continued walking, his face wearing the blank but concentrated look that he usually wore when he was thinking.

"I'm not nervous!" he said indignantly after a few seconds, "I'm just finding the amount of time we have to wait intolerable!"

Stella opened her mouth in incredulity. She couldn't believe this. "It was you who insisted on leaving half-an-hour earlier in order to be absolutely sure that you wouldn't miss that suspect of yours!"

"Well, we would have left even earlier if madam hadn't taken so long to 'get ready'!" Sherlock snapped back.

Stella's stinging reply was cut short by John suddenly barging in, carrying a large box which supposedly contained their costumes.

"Right," he said briskly, "Stella your costume is in here, so we'd better change now and get ready for the show. Sherlock – out."

Sherlock was about to protest, but John steered him out and shut the door in his face before any words came out.

**General POV:**

The giant sports hall that the charity group had rented was heaving with people. The whole room had been lavishly decorated: paper garlands that some kids had made at school hung everywhere, the front of the stage was so heavily laden with flowers that it was quite likely that some of the smaller chidren performing that night would be entirely hidden from sight, and Jean-Louis, who was skipping happily all over the room looked like a Christmas Tree about to explode.

Sherlock marched in, looking pleased with himself, as usual. He had obviously solved his case successfully. The man had proved easy to question, probably because he was so sick with nerves he didn't really have the strength to do anything else.

He chose the seat in the middle of the third row fom the front. He was sitting next to Lestrade's niece, who had come along with her uncle and parents to assist to the show, seeing as her two younger siblings were performing. Sherlock soon found that she had a quick tongue and a very funny and sarcastic way of criticizing the way people acted and dressed. They distracted themselves together for ten minutes by remarking about passers-by, and, in Sherlock's case, deducing half their life story.

At precisely six o'clock, the lights dimmed and the spotlights were turned on to illuminate a pudgy woman that strolled onto the stage. She beamed at them, her wide mouth stretching into what was obviously supposed to be a welcoming smile.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said in a breathy, girly voice, "boys and girls; I have the greatest pleasure of welcoming you to a show that was entirely set-up by our generous members. They have given up time, money and effort in order to put together this wonderful event, from which all the money will go to the Poor Sarving Children in Africa. I thank you all for coming, and, of course, for having participated in such an important mission. Let the show begin!"

There was a smattering of applause, but it quickly died away, maybe because everyone was eager to see the acts, but more likely because the public, mostly composed of bored dads who had come to see their daughters irish-dancing, couldn't be bothered to bring their hands together more than a couple of times.

The red curtains opened and the show began. First came the group of six-year-olds doing their little macarena routine ("That one on the right has a sick brother, the one at the back refused until ten minutes ago to do this act, the one in the middle loves ponies, and the one in front of all the others has extremly rich parents", recited Sherlock in a bored voice, not bothering to keep it down.), then came a couple of clowns (one of them being Sherlock's suspect) who did their very best to make everyone laugh by falling all over the place, but didn't succeed (probably because one of them kept trying to pull a rabbit out of his hat whilst simultaneously trying to hitch his falling trousers up. Adults are too polite to laugh at such things). Followed by a trio of children who had decided to do a gymnastics act, which turned out to be a series of roly-polies accompanied by an extremely irritating soundtrack. After that came Jean-Louis and his clipboard-lady, both wearing flaring costumes in every shade of red and orange one could think of ("They'll set fire to the place with those costumes of theirs." whispered Lestrade's niece to Sherlock). They danced a surprisingly very professional-looking tango, and they got a special round of applause at the end because Jean-Louis had flipped the lady into the air and caught her upside-down again (not a good idea, as it turned out). They walked off amidst a roar of applause and cheers from the crowd, Jean-Louis now so beetroot red he looked like a turnip, which, by the way, clashed horribly with his flaming costume.

At last, John and Stella walked onto the stage. The spotlights turned to red, and they took their position in the middle of the floor. John was wearing a red shirt an black trousers, flaring only a tiny bit at the ankles, and Stella was wearing a tight red bodice with a long and ample black skirt covered in ruffles, which was hitched up a little at one side, giving a glimse of red flats on her feet. They stood still, rigid, their arms raised above their heads, like statues. Then suddenly the music started and they _moved._ John and Stella linked hands and started weaving in and out of each other's arms, their feet tapping, hips swaying, their heads high, hands never letting go. The music was fast and Spanish, it made you want to dance along with them, the rythm pulsing through everyone's veins. On and on John and Stella danced, twirling, whirling, stepping and sashaying... Then the music stopped and so did they, they stood stock-still, John's arm still curled around Stella's waist and her arm raised in the air.

The room stayed eerily silent for a split second, then suddenly burst into applause, cheering, screaming, whistling for more. John and Stella looked around, looking dazed, as if they had completely forgotten they had been dancing in a hall full to the brim with people (which was probably the case).

Even Sherlock was standing, his eyes alight with admiration and joy, and, unexpectedly, maybe even a little pride. Lestrade's niece was standing on her chair, yelling herself hoarse and waving her arms about. Children at the front were gaping wide-eyed and grinning at Stella, who waved back at them. John was smiling almost timidly, but anyone who knew him would see the glee and joy in his eyes. At the final bow, everyone requested they took another one, roaring with delight all over again when they did a farewell twirl.

Sherlock was watching the crowd shout and cheer, his hands becoming numb with the amount of clapping he had done. He smiled slightly, because he knew that no-one except him would see and live with the two stars after tonight.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"John!"

The yell wrenched Stella from her peaceful sleep. She leapt up, alert, reaching for the gun she kept in the drawer by her bed. Teaching martial arts and becoming a master of defence came along with inevitable habits and precautions. John wasn't the only one in this block carrying a gun in his pocket most of the time.

Then Stella realised that the shout had been, in fact, for John, not her. Even so, she ran into the kitchen, the gun in one hand and a dressing gown in the other.

She arrived at the same time as John, who was also carrying a gun. His eyes were hazy with sleep, but his stance was ready and poised. They looked around and spotted Sherlock, who was standing in front of the open fridge. He whirled around with an outraged expression.

"John! Stella! There's no more milk!"

Stella was stunned. John just gaped. They glanced at each other.

"You... you yelled the house down because there was no milk?" spluttered John.

Sherlock's look of urgency nearly made Stella burst out laughing. Nearly. Instead, she felt hot, bubbling anger build up inside her. She glared furiously at Sherlock.

"Do you realize that I haven't had nearly enough sleep for the past three days? And John's had two night shifts in a row without so much as a chance to lie down! Yet here you are, yelling your head off because there's no bloody milk! It's four thirty in the morning Sherlock!" she practically shouted, her voice shaking with anger and exhaustion.

Sherlock looked for a moment as if he might repent, but the next he waved his arm dismissively and slammed his tea mug on the kitchen table, sending its contents everywhere.

"How am I supposed to make tea if there's no milk ?" muttered Sherlock grumpily, marching into the living room, newspaper under his arm, the tea now forgotten on the table.

John stared after him, the sagging effects of tiredness returning. He wearily followed Sherlock into the living room and sank into his armchair by the fire, whose embers were still smouldering gently. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, his hands running thrugh his hair.

Stella followed suite. Sherlock had taken one of his favourite positions: head lolling off the seats' edge of the couch, legs draped on the back of it. Stella sighed and walked over to him. She pressed a finger to his forehead, tilting his head back so that his face was upturned towards hers. His eyes flew open, and he gazed at her upside-down.

"Sherlock," she said quietly, "there's a thing just down the road, it's called a twenty-four-hour grocery shop. It's very useful, especially at times like these when food runs out."

By way of answer, Sherlock gave her look of disdain.

"I don't go _shopping._" he said with contempt dripping off his tongue.

Stella shrugged.

"Well," she said evenly, "It's your choice. After all, John doesn't take milk in his tea, and I don't like it."

Sherlock glared at her upside-down. She was right. He had no choice; if he wanted milk, he was going to have to get it himself. He swung his legs back down, and marched out of the room, head held high and his dressing-gown belt trailing behind him.

Sherlock emerged from his room ten minutes later, fully-dressed and pulling his coat on. He grabbed his scarf, pointedly ignored Stella and John, and walked out of the flat, slamming the door behing him.

Stella smiled triumphantly, rubbing a hand over her tired face.

"Well," she said to John, "That's got to be the first time I've ever sen him going shopping. What about you?"

She turned around to see his reaction, then smiled again at what she saw. John was fast asleep, legs tucked up in front of him, his elbow propped onto the chair's arm-rest, his cheek resting on his fist. His chest was heaving gently, his face showing the number of hours he hadn't slept.

Stella crept over, fondly stroked back a stray strand of hair, and tip-toed back into her room.

_Later, in the afternoon._

"John, your go."

John puffed out a great deal of air and massaged his temples, looking as though he was trying to play poker in a completely dark room, with invisible cards, no defined sum of money, and players who _smiled all the time_.

Stella smirked. "Oh, come on. It's only a game of 'four in a row'."

"Easy for you to say," muttered John, still trying to burn a hole throw the counters with his eyes. He had had five hours of sleep since Sherlock's sudden decision to do the sensible thing, and the purple shadows under his eyes had almost gone.

Then John's eyes lit up and he grinned triumphantly. He picked up a counter and confidently dropped it down a row. Stella frowned, what was he planning? Then she saw it; he had her trapped: if she blocked his counter with one of hers, she would then allow him to drop another one on top, and so win the game!

Stella laughed and pushed the grid over. The coins spilt out all over the table, and John didn't make a single move to recollect them. He laid back in his chair and watched Stella giggling with an amused look on his face.

They sat there, laughing, until they heard a knock on the door. Stella staggered up and went to answer it. She opened it to find Mrs Hudson holding a letter in her hand, and wearing a bemused expression on her face.

"Oh, hello dear," she said, smiling at Stella, "I just came to hand over a letter to you. A very... Er... upset gentleman came to deliver it. It's addressed to the inhabitants of 221B, but not anyone in particular. I thought I should just bring it here so that you and the boys could have a look at it."

Stella took the letter, a little confused. The bills were usually addressed to Mrs Hudson, and normal letters that Stella, John, and Sherlock received always had their name on them. She thanked Mrs Hudson, and walked over to the couch to open the letter.

She slipped a finger under the seal, slid it across the envelope, and pulled the paper out. Her mouth gaped open further and further as her eyes travelled till the end of the letter. When she finished, her face was a mask of surprise, anger, and, surprisingly, amusement. She turned to John, her mouth still hanging open.

"What is it?" inquired John.

Stella handed him the slip of paper silently, her eyes looking like they could burn a hole through the thickest of vault doors.

John took the letter and read it quickly. Like Stella, he was speechless. Then they looked at each other, and, in unison, yelled "SHERLOCK!"

They heard a loud clatter in the room at the end of the hall, then saw Sherlock's long silhouette sauntering over to them.

" 'Someone call?" he asked nonchalantly, his eyes darting all over his two flatmates, probably already deducing what had happened by their faces and body language.

"Yes, Sherlock, we called. We have a slight... hiccup we want to discuss with you." managed Stella in a choked voice because she was straining to keep calm.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Stella handed him the letter without a word.

Sherlock took it curiously, glanced at the first few lines, but then tossed it behind his shoulder, shrugging.

"So?" he said.

Stella sighed and rolled her eys. Why was it Sherlock could figure out the most complicated things in the world, yet seemed unable to grasp even the simplest principles of humanity?

"_So?_ I 'll tell you what's so!"

Stella picked up the fallen piece of paper and began to read it out loud.

"_Dear Sir(s) and/or Madam(s) that are presently living in 221B Baker Street, London._

_Whilst I thank you for shopping with us regularly and often using our loyalty card, I am considering having to ban you permanently from our store, considering the behaviour of a certain Mr Sherlock Holmes. Here is a list of just a few things that he has done during his last visit:_

_Picked up 15 boxes of male contraceptives and placed them randomly in people's trolleys_

_Moved a "Caution – Wet Floor" sign to the carpeted area of the children section_

_Set 10 alarm clocks all around the shop to go off at 5 minute intervals_

_Pulled back the curtains of each and every changing room that were obviously occupied under the pretext that he was looking for his wife_

_Opened a chemistry set (which we will ask you to pay for) and settled to making purple mud, which he then slipped into a baby's car-seat while its' mother wasn't looking_

_Slipped small objects into people's pockets such as bubblegum, food colouring, rubbers, and spoons so that they 'beeped' alarmingly when the unfortunate customers left the shop_

_Convinced a three-year-old girl to open and spill a packet of white flour on top of a shop-assistant's head (the child was on Mr Holmes shoulders when she did so)_

_Played Beethoven's 5th symphony on the new keyboard that our store has just started selling, and refused to leave without someone paying him for it_

_Thank you for either stopping Mr Holmes from ever coming inside our store again, either not ever coming back altogether to it yourselves if he does not cease his antics. _

_Yours faithfully,_

_The Manager"_

Stella finished reading the letter and glared at Sherlock furiously. There was no need for words, the look said it all.

Sherlock had draped himself on the sofa again, his head thrown back and his limbs sprawled all over the couch, but his eyes were focused and alert, he had obviously listened to Stella's reading.

There was a long silence. Then Sherlock finally spoke.

"So?" he enquired flatly.

Stella and John exchanged a long look. John's mouth was slowly spreading to a grin, and Stella could feel laughter building up somewhere around her stomach.

Then she and John just couldn't stand it anymore, and they burst ou laughing, bent over with their arms around their waists, unable to stop for nearly a minute.

Finally, Stella managed to calm down enough to utter a few words.

"You... are... impossible." she gasped breathlessly, a grin still spread over her face.

Sherlock was watching them with an impassive expression, but also with a giveaway glint of amusement in his eyes.

"That's my job." he said, smiling slightly.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

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Will and Lyra POV:

Will walked to the water's edge, and back to the terrace, then back to the water beat his hands together, looking for an answer, but no answer came, and he shook his head angrily.

"Just... wait," he said, rubbing his hair in frustration, "wait till tomorrow. We'll go back out the window again in the morning and look for a solution then. That Charles Latrom is a knight, remember, which means people will automatically be on his side and not ours. This needs some careful planning."

Lyra looked at him. Will thought she looked younger, more vulnerable. Her face looked as though it was struggling to regain control of itself, and it finally settled on a calmer expression, if still worried and sad. But her eyes were screaming hatred at Sir Charles Latrom, burning with loss and desperation. Her daemon was a bear cub now, and Lyra was hugging him to her chest, while he was trying to console her with his clumsy paws.

Slowly, Lyra nodded.

"Yes," she whispered, as if all strength had been sapped out of her. "We'll wait till the morning, there's bound to be an answer to all this."

Will tried to give her a reassuring smile, putting all his sympathy and friendship in it.

"My mother always says that things look better in the morning, after a good night's sleep. Let's hope it proves to be true."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Will woke up the next morning from a nearly sleepless night with a feeling of dread and despair; It was a few moments before he remembered why his heart felt like it was made of lead.

He came down the stairs slowly, still thinking about how they could possibly get the alethiometer back without being caught. As he arrived on the landing, the cat they had rescued two nights ago rubbed itself against his legs. Will absent-mindedly scratched the back of its ears, and walked over to the table Lyra was sitting at.

Lyra raised her head at his approach, looking pale and drawn. There were dark purple shadows under her eyes. Obviously she had hardly slept either.

She smiled, however, when he sat down in front of her.

"Morning," she said, "Want some coffee?"

Will nodded. Lyra got up and settled to making the drink, all the time reassuring Will, saying that they were bound to find a way to reclaim the alethiometer. It sounded to Will as if she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

When they had both consumed some of the bitter beverage and some stale toast, they set off back across the avenue towards the window.

Lyra went through first, grasping her now very light little blue rucksack, with Pantalaimon on her shoulder as a fly. She ducked in and out of sight. Will followed, only pausing to look back at the silent and beautiful bay they were leaving.

Lyra was waiting for him, still clutching her bag. Will straightened, feeling horribly exposed. There were cars speeding along the street, with mothers and their toddlers playing in the park, and a few older people tottering over to the corner shop dragging little shopping trolleys behind them.

Together, Lyra and Will walked to the town center, making sure to keep to the quietest roads and paths, keeping their heads low, to avoid being recognised.

When they finally reached the small square in which Lyra has shown Will what she could do with her golden compass, they sat down in the grass under the shade of a large oak tree. It was a sunny day, and children with their parents were everywhere. Will had pointed out that there was less chance of them being spotted if they kept to crowded areas.

They watched in silence as the uncaring, happily families carried on with their daily routines. Finally, Lyra spoke.

"So what are we going to do, Will?" she asked quietly.

Will said nothing. He leaned forwards, hands clasped in front of him, eyes surveying the sun-drenched park in front of them. After a minute or so, he answered uncertainly.

"I think... I think we'd better look around his property for a bit, to collect as much information as possible about the whereabouts of the alethiometer. You still have his card, right?"

Lyra nodded. She'd shown to Will Charles Latrom's card the night before, when she had suddenly remembered that the old man had given it to her in the museum.

"All right. But we'll need some kind of diguise, Will. We can't go there in broad daylight with no fixed idea in mind. And, if he stole it from us so readily and easily, he's probably expecting us to come to him anyway. We can't give him the satisfaction of giving in to his suppositions."

Will nodded thoughtfully. It made sense. If they were to spend the day skulking around Charles Latrom's house, they might as well do it in a way as to not be noticed, or worse, caught.

"Ok," he said, "Here's what we'll do. We'll go and buy some disguise items, then we'll go somewhere public, but go to the lavatories or something, so that we can change in private. Having our disguises on as soon as possible won't hurt the fact that we're trying to stay unseen in Oxford anyway. We'll meet outside whichever place we're going to, and we'll make our way back to Cittagazze. Once there, we'll see what kind of exploration at Sir Charles Latrom's place we can do. That seem all right to you?"

Lyra nodded, looking much happier and confident now that they had a plan. She stood up and straightened her skirt.

"Come on," she said, smiling, "I want to see what I look like with a wig on again. Me and Roger used to slip into the Palmerian professor's rooms and try on all his wigs. That is, until the butler caught us at it."

Smiling in response, Will got to his feet as well, and they made their way together to the nearest costume store they could find.

They soon spotted one. It was called _Mr Tweezie's Dress-Up Emporium. _The shop was large and brand new, with neon lights everywhere, racks of accessories and clothes all around them. In there, Will and Lyra spent two unexpectedly happy hours, trying various wigs and hats on, giggling all the while. It was a huge relief to laugh and joke to their hearts' content after all the events they had been through during the past four days. They were soon in a pile of helpless giggles at the sight of Lyra in a massively poofy black wig and Will in a moustache and top hat. Pantalaimon amused himself all the while by romping through piles of dresses and costumes as a ferret, causing a few screams from a couple of shopping teenage girls.

In the end, they bought a short black bob wig for Lyra, under which she could easily fold her long dark blond hair when the time came to use it, and some large spectacles for Will, along with a short, pale-blond wig that either of them could wear if the need came to vary their costumes.

Once out of the store, Will and Lyra decided to go to the closest supermarket, buy some different clothes, and change in the lavatories. They found a big grocery shop in the next five minutes, and Will handed Lyra a twenty pound note, telling her to choose clothes as different to the present ones as possible. They arranged to meet in an hour outside the shop, with their costumes safely on, and they split up.

When an hour had gone by, Will and Lyra met as planned in front of the supermarket, each with their new appearances securely on. Will was now blond with black glasses, dressed in black jeans and a dark green T-shirt. Lyra had a black bob and a pink summer dress, with white sandals. She had also bought a little white bag to vary from the blue one. Will saw Pantalaimon' s head, now mouse-shaped, peeking out of the top of the bag. They stared, hardly able to recognise each other.

Lyra grinned. "Well," she said, "If this nearly fooled us, it'll certainly fool Sir Charles."

They left the town center, bought a couple of sandwiches and drinks for lunch, and walked leisurely back to Cittagazze, their minds now almost entirely at ease. After all, it was difficult to feel gloomy and worried when the sun was shining, the birds singing, children laughing in the background and Pan, as a robin, flying carelessly over their heads.

Lyra was just busy recounting all the mischief she and Roger use to get into at Jordan College to Will, when she spotted a big blue Rolls Royce driving along the street, coming towards them. She gasped as she recognised it. It was Sir Charles Latrom's car! She grabbed Will by the elbow, and turned him around, making it seem as though he had upset her and she was restraining him from leaving. She whirled him into a position that made it impossible for the people in the car to see their faces and held him fast.

The whole thing took hardly more than a couple of seconds, and Will, dumb with fatigue, didn't have the time or energy to react. He was about to protest, when he saw Lyra's urgent and terrified look, and he understood that she had acted like that to conceal themselves.

They waited, petrified, until the smooth and powerful sound of the engine had died away.

Slowly, Lyra let go of him and they sprang apart.

"Who was that? The tall pale man? Or Charles Latrom?" Will asked, weary with fatigue and worry.

Lyra was trembling, though whether from fear, anger, or frustration, Will couldn't tell.

"Sir Charles." she answered, gritting her teeth.

Looking around furtively, Will and Lyra ran over to the window and ducked through it. Cittagazze welcomed them with a fresh salty breeze and a setting sun over the horizon.

Too shaken and worried to appreciate its beauty, Will and Lyra walked quickly back to the cafe where they slept at night. Once there, Will sank into a chair, exhausted, while Lyra fetched two cokes from the fridge and opened them. She handed one to Will and sat down next to him.

Will thanked her and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. The hunted look had returned to them, and it made him look older, more like a soldier than a child.

"Sir Charles knows where we are. Or at least he knows the approximate position of the window. Where did he drop you off yesterday?"

Lyra frowned, trying to remember. "At the end of Banbury road, at Summertown, I think. D'you think he followed me when I turned around?

Will nodded. "It's possible," he said, "In fact, it's more than likely."

Lyra carried on frowning, looking as though she was trying to remember something.

Will noticed, and asked what the matter was.

"I... I think I know this man, Will. I'm nearly certain of it, but I can't for the life of me remember where I could've met him, or who he is, or... anything. But I know I've seen him before, other than at the museum, I mean."

"Maybe he just reminds you of someone you knew when you were very small," suggested Will.

Lyra shook her head. "No. No, I'm sure I know him."

Will shrugged. It's not like it could affect them any further, especially when they were safely in Cittagazze.

They spent the rest of the evening on the beach discussing any possible way of reclaiming the alethiometer without being caught, but without any actual knowledge of the layout of the house, they didn't make any significant progress. Lyra suggested, though uncertainly, that they should speak to the police about it, but Will firmly said that it was the very last thing that would help them. "Besides," he added, "you said that the master of Jordan gave it to you, and I believe you, but in my world you need to have all sorts of documents to prove that an instrument that valuable is really yours."

Lyra sensed that there was another reason for which Will was so reluctant to see the police, but was sensible enough not to ask what it was.

They stayed in friendly silence as they watched Pantalaimon as a seagull skim over the waves until the full moon shone high up in the sky. They went to bed late, but they had so many problems and worries on their backs that they wouldn't have had much sleep if they'd gone to bed sooner anyway.

Lyra woke up the next morning with the sun full in her face. Not surprising really, since she had forgotten to close the shutters last night. She shoved Pan off her stomach and got up to do so, cursing herself for having omitted to do it when she had gone to bed.

As she reached outside to pull the shutter towards her, movement caught her eye. She looked over to the beach, and saw Will walking aimlessly on the white sand, staring at the sea. Lyra watched, glad that he couldn't see her. She didn't want to be caught watching him.

Lyra thought he looked lonely, especially since he didn't have a daemon. She glanced at the butterfly Pantalaimon on the windowsill. How terrible it must be for Will to be on his own all the time!

Sighing, Lyra pulled her head back inside, pulling the shutters along with her. She turned to her daemon, now a panther, and hugged him. Pantalaimon purred, Lyra felt the vibrations from his throat down to her very soul.

"Pan, what are we going to do? We can't help Will find his father unless we have the alethiometer, and it seems almost impossible to get it back without attracting the attention of the police. Oh, Pan. I wish we were back in our own world. "

Pantalaimon raised his massive feline head and stared at his human with huge green eyes.

"Our own world? Lyra do you really wish that? What with all the damage Lord Asriel did to the environment when he made that bridge? With the Gobblers re-building their organization? With Mrs Coulter still looking for you? Are you seriously wishing to go back?"

Lyra shook her head. She felt drained already, even though she'd only just woken up.

"No," she whispered, "No, Pan, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said it."

She thought of Will, who needed her. Oh, he probably didn't know it, but he did. He needed a friend as well as an accomplice and a confident. And Lyra could supply all of those.

She found Will in the kitchen when she came down half-an-hour later, when she had washed herself and attempted to do the same to Pantalaimon.

Will glanced up as she came towards him.

"Hey," he said. There were shadows under his eyes, and he was paler than usual, but he smiled at her when she sat down in front of him.

Lyra smiled back and went to the bar to see what was still fresh enough to be eaten. She rummaged through the cupboards and the fridge, but found only a few rumpled potatoes and the last loaf of stale bread. There was no more milk, and the rest of the stuff was either expired or too questionable to eat. She said so to Will, and he suggested that they go and buy some fresh food at a supermarket in Oxford. Lyra agreed happily, keen to see more of Will's world.

They hurriedly put their diguises on and made their way over to the window. Twenty minutes later, Will and Lyra found themselves in a local store where they bought with Will's money enough food to last three days. Will was busy paying at the till (something else Lyra had never seen), whilst Lyra was reading the notices on the board outside the shop. Her eyes travelled over notices of lost pets, vanished people, product advertisements, and job offers, when she spotted a bright-blue paper at the top right-hand corner of the board. She stepped closer to read it and craned her neck to make out the writing. It was too high for her, so she thought to Pan to become a fly and read it to her instead.

Pantalaimon flew up to the paper, hovered there for a few seconds, then suddenly zoomed back to Lyra, seemingly seized by panic. Lyra was bemused, until a stream of Pan's thoughts trickled into her mind. When Lyra understood, she gasped, horrified.

Lyra ran to Will, just as he was coming out of the store, laden with three plastic bags full to the brim. When he saw Lyra's stricken face, he dropped the groceries and grabbed her shoulders as she hurtled into him, completely non-plussed at what further problems could have affected her.

"Will!" she cried, "Will, we have to act now! That horrible old man! I never thought... Oh, we have to do something!"

Firstly concerned about their safety, Will picked up the bags and pulled Lyra behind a thick hedge, where they would be concealed from prying eyes. Then he turned to Lyra.

"What's happened? Tell me everything. Clearly."

Lyra gulped and took a deep breath to stop herself from bursting into tears.

"The notice-board, I was looking at it while you were paying. I saw this blue paper on the high corner. It was too high for me to read, so I sent Pan to do it. He did, and when he came down... Oh, Will... When he came down, he said that it was about the alethiometer. He said... He said that Sir Charles Latrom was going to sell it. He's advertising for it, it's the exact description. He's going to sell it at auction in three days' time."

Will said nothing, but all remaining colour on his face drained from it. He sank to the ground, cradling his head in his hands. He stayed like that for a minute or so, then he raised his head.

"Show me the paper." he said, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Lyra pointed the slip of paper out to him on the board. Being taller than Lyra, Will read it without too much difficulty. He read it out loud in a low dead voice.

"Object of great value. Resembles big compass, 24 karat gold for main body, cristal surface, white gold needles, ivory background, 36 symbols finely painted on edge of screen, diamond embellishments. For further information, please call displayed number, or contact Sir Charles Latrom at given address."

Will finished in a choked voice, and he turned back to Lyra.

"This is beyond our power now. We need help."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

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"Er... Will... Are you sure about this?"

It was eight-thirty in the morning and Will and Lyra were outside the enormous white marble building that was the main library in Oxford. Lyra was wondering what on earth they were doing there, especially as they had very little time before Sir Charles sold the alethiometer. Lyra was under the impression they should spend every minute available planning the recovery of her beloved instrument.

When Will had found out about the sale at auction of the alethiometer and admitted that they needed help, he had taken Lyra here. Lyra had wondered why at first, but saw that Will was deep in thought, so she didn't ask him the purpose of their visit.

However, she was still puzzled when she saw the name of the place in huge lettering over the entrance: Oxford Central Library.

How was a pile of dusty old books going to help them get the alethiometer back? She turned to Will in confusion.

He looked back and gave her a small smile, apparently reading her thoughts.

"Oh, don't worry. There's more than just books in a library in this world." he assured her.

Lyra stared, surprised. She had always thought that only boring old scholars consulted boring old manuscripts in such a place. That was partly why she and Roger had always avoided the huge musty library at Jordan College, the other part being that Roger wasn't allowed in because of his status as a servant.

Lyra's already open mouth widened even more as she entered the building with Will. This was so different! Of course, there was still hundreds of thousands of books, but most with glossy, shiny covers, and the really old ones that Lyra could see were clasped in chains on high tables. 'They must be valuable' she thought.

Lyra gazed in wonder at all the warm lights, the comfortable chairs, the strange ambaric machines on one side of the room, the arched ceiling, the spotless white shelves on which were stacked more books than Lyra had ever seen her life.

Will smiled slightly again at her amazement. Lyra followed him over to the machine department; here, Will swiped a card across a strange device, and settled in front of one of the screens of the machines.

"Lyra," Will said quietly, to respect the silence rule in the library as well as to prevent them being heard, "this is called a computer. It's an electrical machine, what you call ambaric, and you can use it for all sorts of things: research, typing up documents, store photographs (you know them as photograms), make videos (they're moving photograms, like in the cinema), etc... I'm allowed to use this one for a maximum of two hours, after which my time expires."

Lyra was very impressed.

"What are you going to do with it?" she asked.

"I'm going to look for someone who can help us. The good thing about internet (that's where all the information of the world is stored) is that you can ask any question you want and you're bound to have at least a few answers. Sort of like the alethiometer, except that what's on the internet isn't always accurate when it comes to specific facts, and some of it is downright rubbish. But it's extremely useful, especially at times when you don't know what to do, like now. You can watch if you like, but I doubt you'll find it interesting."

He was wrong there. Lyra pulled up a chair as he typed in his first entry. She wondered how he could type so fast when the buttons on the keys were so illogically positioned, and she watched, wide-eyed, as a list of results appeared on the screen. Will clicked on a few of them in turn, and often returned back to the archives after a single glance. Occasionally though, he made a note on a pad of paper next to him. He someties consulted Lyra as to whether she agreed with something or not, and took her opinion in serious consideration.

Lyra found this system amazing and extremely clever, but, being Lyra, she soon became bored, so she wandered of to different sections of the library to explore.

Even though Lyra had never beeen much of a reader, she eagerly leafed through books with bright covers that caught her eye, Pantalaimon sharing her thrill and delight. And she was bemused to find out that books weren't only, as she had thought, full of facts and theories, but mostly with stories. She picked out a few short ones and set to reading them on some big squashy cushions on the floor. As she read, she subconciously noticed that reading like this was very much like reading the alethiometer: relaxed and concentrated, yet detached from reality.

Lyra soon got absorbed in the story of a horse called Joey and his master called Albert, seperated by war and hundreds of miles, and the time flew by without her once lifting her head up to check the time.

Finally, when two hours had gone by, she suddenly realised that Will's time was up and that she was supposed to find him at the computers again. She walked over quickly, regretedly leaving the books behind, and found Will, still staring at a computer, but this time at a different screen.

Surprised, Lyra joined him and looked at what he was reading so intently. As she sat down, Will glanced up and grinned at her, a spark of hope and triumph in his eye.

"Lyra!" he exclaimed as loudly as he dared in a whisper, "A lady had finished with her computer, so I asked if I could use it instead. She said yes, and look what she was on! I think I've found someone to help us! Look at this."

Lyra did so and found herself reading some story about a man who had witnessed the death of his father by a giant hound, and some two men who had agreed to solve the 'case' by doing some peculiar experiments with sugar, and something about a big dog which everyone thought they could see but didn't actually exist, yet it did, etc... it was all very confusing, but when Lyra turned to Will to ask just how exactly this was going to help, she saw his eyes still shining with hope and his jaw set in determination.

"Don't you see? This man, this... Sherlock Holmes, he can help us! Apparently, he only takes interesting or strange cases, and if they're particularly bizarre, he does it just for fun, he doesn't need payment! Well, I'd like to see a case stranger than this one: an aged old man, that already has so much that he wants more, steals a valuable instrument from two children for no apparent reason, this instrument tells the truth to those who can read it only, and these children are currently hiding from the police in another world!"

But Lyra still looked worried.

"But... wait a minute, this man sounds to me like he's some kind of detective. Don't detectives in your world work with the police? Because he's not a private detective, otherwise he would charge some kind of fee."

Will shook his head impatiently.

"This website is the blog, a sort of public diary, of his best friend, Dr John Watson. He says somewhere that Sherlock Holmes' is a consulting detective; the only one in the world, he invented the job."

Lyra raised her eyebrows.

"Consulting detective?"

"It means that when the police are out of their depth, i.e.: they can't solve the case, they consult Sherlock Holmes and ask him to do it for them."

Lyra still looked doubtful.

"You're saying that we should go to him and ask him to help us get the alethiometer back?" she clarified.

Will nodded in agreement, grinning.

Lyra almost smiled; she'd never seen him so excited or happy before. But she was stil reluctant.

"Will," she said hesitantly, "this isn't like you. I've only known you for about a week, but I know what you're like and how you work. You don't trust strangers. Simple as that. Why would you suddenly change your mind and confide in this man you've never met? I know there's something else, and you can trust me with it, whatever it is."

Will looked at her. His eyes were suddenly very bright and filled with a deep sadness that Lyra couldn't begin to fathom. It took a moment for her to realise that they were filled with tears.

Will looked away again and didn't speak again for a few seconds.

"It's my father." he said at last in a low voice. "Those two journalists that broke into my house, the ones I told you about, they were looking for something . That something was a velvet case with some letters in it, letters to my moher from my father. In one of them, he mentions a window, Lyra, a window, just like the one that leads into Cittagazze! Those men were looking for them because they knew that he discovered something, something that would make the top of the headlines in the whole world; a passage that leads to another world!"

He fell silent, but Lyra still didn't understand what that had to do with Sherlock Holmes. She opened her mouth to ask for further explanations, but Will had started speaking again, his voice now so low that Lyra had to lean forward to hear what he was saying.

"I read the letters over and over again. My father, the one person I would do anything to find, had written those words. He had mentioned me as a baby, had given both my mother and me his love. These letters letters are probably more valuable than all the gold in the world now, but they're my most prized possessions because my gather had written them, because he had thought up the words and sent them to my mother. I went to hide them in the safest place I could think of, under my mattress, to avoid them ever being found. But as I did so, the back of the velvet came apart from the binding. The case was quite old, so I thought that the glue had just given way, but as I examined it, I saw that it had been deliberately stuck on the case itself, because the materials didn't match and the edgings were very different. So I pulled a little more and the added layer came away completely in my hands. Behind it was another letter, of the same sort as the others, but the date was more recent, it was dated a month after my father had been officially declared dead, or at least 'missing, believed dead'. I was bewildered as to why my mother would've hidden any proof that my father was alive, seeing as many interviewers had continued to pester her with questions for months later."

As Will's story came to an end, he pulled something out from his jacket's inner pocket. Lyra saw a piece of very pale and almost transluscent blue paper in his hand. Will unfolded it slowly and smoothed it out on the table, his hand gently carressing the light-blue paper, as tenderly as a newborn kitten.

"My father, like I told you, was looking for an anomaly, a window in the air, like the one that leads into Ci'gazze. He met a man in Alaska who said he knew someone who had seen it. He described it to my father and told him where to find that man. By a stroke of luck, my father crossed paths with him. That man's name was Matt Kigalik, an inuit that lived in Alaska. When my father made it clear to him that he was looking for the window, the man decided to help him, so he travelled there with him. Another man, a physicist named Nelson, was also aware of what my father was looking for, except that they didn't discuss it, keeping it a secret from the others, who were just archaeologists looking for exceptionally old carvings. The thing is, my father knew about that, and Nelson knew that my father knew that he knew, but they just kept quiet and continued to bluff their fellow explorers."

He slid the paper over to Lyra and she saw in astonishment that it was the letter he had been talking about. How could've he taken the risk of carrying it around with him, especially if it was as valuable as he claimed it was? She glanced over at Will, silently asking for his permission.

Without a word, Will nodded.

Her hands trembling slightly, Lyra reached out for the letter and delicately picked it up to read it.

"_Alaska, Wednesday 25th July 1985_

_My Darling, _[it read]

_It seems like years since I last held you in my arms, and I hope I will be able to do so again soon. We made good progress today, but it was a relief to reach a small village in time for the night. The villagers are natives, and don't speak a word of English, but are very hospitable and helpful. Matt Kigalik, who decided to come and search for the anomaly along with us, was able to translate for us and we were provided with food and lodging for the night._

_Nelson was busy 'fixing his ballons' today. Right. He was probably cheking his radiation suits for rips in case he suddenly needed it. Even though we're quite close now, that guy is still a mighty mystery to me, and I'm starting to get curious about the why and how he came here. He talks a lot, but never about himself, like he's afraid of revealing too much information. Anyway, him being busy all day found me obliged to talk with the other men in the party. There was one man in particular, a young chap in the army who had only just started his medical career as a doctor who caught my attention. A quiet sort of fellow, not very sociable, but quite amusing once opened up a bit. His name is John Watson, and this is his first expedition in a foreign country. I felt quite comfortable in his presence, so we started talking, and I soon learned that he was English, but had often felt the need to get out of the UK. He later told me about his family, about how his sister is an alcoholic and he was trying to gently force her into a disintoxication cure for a while. Poor guy, knowing women, she isn't going to be easy to convince. Not that you're like that of course, my love, it was a figure of speech. So we talked all day, until we reached Lookout Bridge and I was needed elsewhere for the organization of the expedition. It was a quick matter, and I was soon free to go back to my occupations. I decided to go and explore the area, just to get a head-start on the others. I was about to turn back and go back to the camp after an hour's walk when I heard a shout calling for help. I ran over to where the noise came from and I found myself at the top of a crevass of about twelve feet across and thirty feet deep. I looked over the edge and saw, to my astonishment and growing sense of alarm, young Watson hanging on to a ledge three feet down! He was hanging on with both arms and was struggling to find a foothold on the surfce of the icy wall. Naturally I panicked a little and considered going back to the camp to get some help, but I noticed the doctor's pack on the snow next to a tree a short distance from there. Then it became clear to me: the lad must have stopped and removed his pack for a rest and had gone to explore, like I had, the area. He must have missed the crevass and fallen in when he got too close. Luckily, there was some rope tied on the pack and I ran to get it. I made a loop and lowered it down to pass it around Watson's legs and secured it at his waist. I called to him to let go and grab hold of the rope and I would pull him up to safety. He managed it after a huge effort (the poor man was exhausted and had probably hung there for a while, he had almost no strength left). I manged to pull him up without too much difficulty, for he is quite a light man, despite his rather stocky appearance. He collapsed once pulled back up to safety and stayed still for a few moments. I was still quite shaky over the whole thing as well, my love, and quite understandably too, I might add. Then he got up and clasped me into a tight embrace and repeated over and over again that he was in my dept and would do anything to pay me back. Naturally, he was still in shock, so I didn't take much heed of his words, I was more concerned with his health. I got him back to the camp quickly to get him warmed up, and by an unspoken agreement we decided to tell no-one of the incident. I do not quite know why we took that decision, but it felt like the right thing to do at the time. After all, the other men were busy enough as they were and it would've been just more trouble to them if one of their party had gotten himself in a dangerous situation. So we let the matter go, but John assured me the next morning that he meant what he had said the day before, that he was forever in my debt. I sincerely hope that the opportunity to repay me will never come, for I greatly treasure my life and safety. Oh well, perhaps it will one day come to be useful to our boy, Elaine. Wait till he is old enough and tell him about this story, in the hope that young Watson will extend his dept to my son if I do not need it._

_Elaine, Kigalik gave me the exact postion of the anomaly, and we will go searching for it tomorrow. I am so excited that I feel like a young boy on Christmas Eve! The position is 69.145¡__ឰ__2' 11" N, 157¡__ឱ__2' 19.35" W. Let Will read this when he learns about the real goal of my expedition, but do not let anyone else see this letter, for I fear that if this falls into the wrong hands, the world will go up in chaos. _

_In the meanwhile, my darling, and in the hope that I will survive long enough to see you both again, goodbye, and my love for you will follow you wherever you are. Kiss the boy for me and tell him his father misses him._

_Love,_

_Johnny_

Lyra finished reading and looked up at Will in astonishment. There were lots of things she wanted to tell him, but the first one that came out was:

"Will, this man, John Watson, he... He's the one on the site isn't he? Your father said he was a young English army doctor. That man mentions on his blog that he was an army doctor too, didn't he? He's the one you want to see, not this Sherlock Holmes! And that means that he's in your debt, or technically your father's..."

Will nodded silently, a small, sad smile starting to form on his lips.

"Yes. My father saved this man's life, and so by the rules of nature and honour his debt extends itself to me. We're going to see this man, Lyra, and we're going to ask him to help us."

Lyra looked into his eyes and saw determination, sadness, and pride. She nodded slowly.

"All right," she said, "This afternoon."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Later that day, at three-thirty in the afternoon, Lyra and Will stepped off the bus that had brought them to London into Trafalgar Square. In his hand, Will was holding a map that he had printed off the internet. He'd found 221B Baker Street and had traced the shortest route there from Trafalgar.

They looked around, quite disorientated. Lyra was more quiet and subdued than usual; the journey to London had made her realize how lucky she was to have Will beside her, for this world was so very different from her own, and she wouldn't have been able to manage alone. Everything was so crowded and noisy, nothing seemed familiar and yet it was. She had only ever been to London once before her decision to live with Mrs Coulter, and that had been to accompany the Master of Jordan on a business meeting, because Lord Asriel had been present and the Master had thought it a good idea for her to see her father (although at that time she hadn't known Asriel was her father).

As for Will, he was feeling nervous and excited. Was this man going to remember his debt towards his father? Would he repay it? Would he recognise John Parry in Will? Luckily, he had brought the letter with him to provw his identity.

Cautiously, they made their way across the over-crowded streets of London, always double-checking the map. The air was hot and humid, the sky overcast, Will felt a storm coming.

After 10 mins or so, Will and Lyra found themselves in front of a black door, labelled 221B, next to a comfortable-looking cafe called 'Speedy's Cafe'.

Glancing excitedly at each other, they walked up to the door and Will pressed the bell, somewhat nervously. A few moments later, Lyra heard footsteps and the door opened to reveal a short, motherly-looking middle-aged woman. She looked a little surprised to see them there, but smiled at them warmly.

"Yes, dears? Are you selling cookies?" she inquired with a little laugh. "Or have you just heard of my famous apple pie and were hoping for a piece before my customers gobble it all up?" she added with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

Will smiled back and shook his head politely.

"No, we're not Ma'am, though thank you for the apple pie offer. Sorry to disturb you, but we'd like to see Mr Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson, please. Are they available?"

The lady laughed again.

"Oh, I should have known!" she trilled delightedly. "Another case for Sherlock! Well my dears, you couldn't have come to a better place nor at a better time! Sherlock's been rather... inoccupied lately, and I'm sure any case would be welcome right now. Come in, come in!"

Lyra shot Will a surprised look. How could the lady know what they were here for?

As if she had heard her thoughts, the lady said "Of course, Sherlock's always getting clients these days, he's ever so popular now since John's put stuff on his blog. We've had children a couple of times, too, though they were quite younger than you two."

Will said nothing. What was there to say?

The lady prattled on without noticing Will and Lyra's silence.

"Obviously the problem is that he gets lots of clients who come to him with cases, only he nearly always finds them boring or too simple, so he just dismisses them. I hope you have an interesting one, dears, one that could get him out there a bit. The mess he's made of my walls! And the kitchen! Did you know, he actually shot a pattern on the wall once, just because he didn't have a case on the go and couldn't be bothered to go out for a while."

Will's mouth opened slightly in incredulity and Lyra burst out laughing. The lady apparently shuddered at the memory, but she smiled at Lyra's amusement.

She told them to go straight up the stairs, and to knock on the first door they saw to see Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. As Lyra started to climb the stairs, the lady ("Mrs Hudson, dear, that's what everyone calls me!") put a hand on Will's shoulder and gently held him back for a second.

"You be careful, dear. Sherlock is a good man, but he's quite... awkward, and... well.. quite honestly rude to most people. Don't let it affect you, he does it to everyone." she told him in a low voice. "He's become a little better since he met John and Stella, but he still has a quite a way to go!" she added with a smile.

Wondering who on Earth who Stella was, Will nodded and thanked her for her advice.

"I hope he accepts our case." Lyra whispered to him when he joined her at the top.

"So do I" he whispered back. That barely covers it, he thought. If he doesn't, we're doomed.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Will and Lyra reached the landing and stood in front of the door. They glanced excitedly, if a little nervously at each other.

"Well," Will whispered in a tight voice, "Might as well try."

He took a deep breath, and raised his hand. But as he was about to knock on the door, a voice drifted out from the room inside and Will and Lyra couldn't help but listen.

"For the last time Sherlock, _please_ eat something. You haven't had so much as a crumb for three days! Tea and nicotine patches won't keep you alive any more than toothpaste will." said a woman's exasperated voice.

**Stella's POV:**

Sherlock shrugged and turned his head back to microscope, his face gaunt and strained. Stella looked helplessly at John, who was looking just as concerned as she felt.

"Just eat a piece of toast, it won't kill your brain! In fact, it's sure to do the opposite!"

"You know perfectly well that I never eat while I'm on a case. It stimulates my mental abilities and enables me to think clearly. Under no condition whatsoever will I eat anything that could interrupt the process." Sherlock responded in a monotonous voice, eyes still glued to his microscope.

"But you won't be _able_ to continue the process anyway, because with nothing inside you, you won't be able to stay conscious for much longer." Stella shot back.

Sherlock shrugged and gave her a smile without looking up that could have been meant for a two-year-old who was under the impression that fairies really did exist. "Oh, come now, Stella, you seem to forget that I am used to this sort of fast. I'm not likely to fall unconscious any minute now."

Stella glared at him with a mixture of fury and concern. She looked at John for help, but he just flashed her a card that said 'consider yourself lucky that he even answered you; he never does if I try to make him eat'.

Stella couldn't help but grin.

**Will and Lyra's POV:**

Will and Lyra kept stock-still, Lyra with a laugh building up inside her, Will with disbelief on his face.

Then another voice sounded, a man's.

"Listen, Sherlock, speaking as a professional doctor, I'm telling you that fasting like that is likely to have severe consequences on your body system. It isn't healthy, which I would be inclined to believe is the worst thing a consulting detective should be."

Will looked excitedly at Lyra. A doctor! So this was John Watson!

"Actually, the worst thing I could be is to be beaten by Moriarty over a trivial matter, such as this completely unnecessary and pointless argument." answered the voice that Will and Lyra assumed to be Sherlock Holmes'.

After that came the sounds of two people sighing in frustration and a few chuckles from Sherlock Holmes. This was followed by the sound of footsteps that went away from the room, so presumably someone had gone out of it. Will guessed it was Dr Watson, because the footsteps were heavy, far too heavy for a woman, and he could still hear Sherlock Holmes' chuckles in the room.

Will decided this was probably the right moment to intervene, if there was any. So he raised his hand and knocked on the door. Three short taps, as was his custom.

The voices stopped and Will heard footsteps coming towards the door.

It opened to reveal a very pretty blonde woman, with clear blue eyes and a kind face. It struck Will how much she looked like his mother, and this sent a wave of sadness and despair that came crashing over him, and so prevented him from answering the lady when she kindly asked them what they were here for.

It was Lyra who answered, seeing that Will was dealing with an unexpected emotion.

**General POV:**

"Excuse-me, but we'd like to see Mr Sherlock Holmes, please. We have a case for him. Is he available?" Lyra asked politely. She felt Pan, as a hamster, quiver in her pocket.

Stella smiled and let them in.

" Yes, of course. Come in, I'm sure he'd be delighted." she said brightly. " Well, that depends on whether he decides to be sensible or not." she added, rolling her eyes at a dark-haired man at the kitchen table.

"Have you come to a reasonable decision yet, Sherlock?" she asked him.

Sherlock didn't answer. Indeed, he acted as if Stella hadn't even said anything at all.

Then an idea popped into Stella's mind.

"Listen, Sherlock, if you don't eat that piece of toast, you won't get any cases for a month." she said brightly.

Sherlock still didn't look up from his microscope.

"And how, pray tell, will you be able to ensure that?"

Stella smiled easily. "Well, Mycroft likes me, especially as there's finally someone else to look after his baby brother, and he owes me a favour. As for Lestrade, I just have to tell the Chief Superintendent that he (Lestrade) has been granting you access to some of the most private and secret cases of the force. I don't think he'll be very happy that a simple citizen has free access to very confidential files."

Sherlock went still.

"What about my normal clients?"

Was it her imagination, or did he sound slightly desperate?

"I only have to say that you're already on a case, or that you refuse to have anything to do with such boring and predictable people anymore."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and stared at Stella penetratingly, as if judging whether she would be able to do such a thing to him.

Stella stared back steadily. She kept a straight face, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't be able to detect the lie she had just told. It was all a bluff: Mycroft owed her no such favour, and she had no way of contacting the Ch.S. Besides, she liked Lestrade, and they were good friends. If she told on him, he would get in trouble, and that was the last thing Stella wanted. Fortunately, Sherlock didn't know this, because he was always too focused on his cases to notice. It was, however, true that Mycroft liked her (**A/N: NOT **_**like **_**like her, just a usual friend-like)**, and that he was glad she was there to watch out for Sherlock.

Finally, Sherlock said, "You wouldn't."

Stella smiled. She was a wolf in front of a lamb.

"Oh, I would. And you know it."

Sherlock's face stayed impassive, except for his eyes, who were still worried. The odds that she would actually do it were pretty low, but Sherlock knew, as well as any man, how unpredictable women could be.

Stella could see the conclusion forming in her friend's eyes. She could almost hear the words he was thinking; 'Better not risk it.'

Finally, Sherlock unfolded himself from his chair, and, looking directly into Stella's eyes, his own sparkling with defiance and frustration (and maybe even a little amusement), took a piece of toast from the plate on the table and stuffed in his mouth.

Stella smiled triumphantly and turned to Will and Lyra.

"What are your names?" she inquired.

Lyra was too busy goggling at Sherlock, who was trying to chew a whole piece of toast in a single gulp, to answer, so Will gave them to her, leaving their surnames out.

The lady, whom by now the children had assumed to be Stella, nodded, not looking very surprised at their obvious attempt at discrection. She was probably used to such situations.

"Sherlock! There are some clients here for you. They have a case." she called to Sherlock in the kitchen,

"I know." said Sherlock, without looking up from his microscope (probably because he was still trying to swallow his piece of toast).

Stella rolled her eyes again and smiled apologetically to her visitors.

"Will, Lyra, this is Sherlock Holmes, a consulting four-year-old. He's also known as the only consulting detective in the world; but is currently sulking because he has to consume a minimum of food to stay alive."

Sherlock Holmes didn't respond by any visible means to the children, but Stella noticed his neck tendons tense, a sure sign that he was aware of the situation, but was choosing to ignore it. He lifted his face and gazed blankly at the children for a few moments.

Then he started to speak rapidly and without hesitation.

"The girl comes from Oxford, the boy doesn't. They met a week ago or thereabouts. The boy is hiding from someone and the girl is unacustomed to London. They have both been to the beach lately, though not for a holiday, more likely to hide from that boy's enemy."

Will's an Lyra's mouths dropped down. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. 'Always the same reaction' he thought. 'Even though it's obvious to anyone who bothers to observe.'

"How did you know all that?" Lyra asked incredulously.

"I didn't know. I observed." answered Sherlock flatly, his eyes glued back to his microscope. "Now if it's not too much bother, could you please explain as to why exactly you are here? I'm on a case right now and I don't have time for children who think their situation is good enough for my attention."

Stella could see that Will and Lyra were taken aback by Sherlock's rudeness, but the boy recovered quickly. 'Mrs Hudson probably warned them about Sherlock' she mused.

The boy stepped forward to answer.

"You see Sir, Lyra here has an object of great value, and it's been stolen from her by a man, a knight. He plans to sell it at auction in three days' time, and we can't go on without it. We need your help to get it back."

Sherlock slowly looked up from his instruments, the hint of a disbelieving smile playing about on his mouth.

"You can't be serious?" he asked, his voice incredulous.

The children stood still, not sure what to answer. Was he accepting it or not?

"Did you seriously think that I would bother to help you retrieve a stolen object? Where's the murder? Where's the mystery? Where's the brilliance of the case? You're obviously either abnormally naïve, or even more stupid than the rest of the human population. My time and intellect is wasted on such rubbish." said Sherlock indignantly, all the while putting on his coat and scarf, stuffing some papers inside his pocket.

He marched pass Will and Lyra, completely ignoring their desperate pleas and protestations.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've found some matter of relevance to my case, and I should like to submit it to the laboratory, if you'd be so kind as to let me pass and leave my flat." he said dismissively, not even glancing at Lyra who tried to retain him by grabbing his sleeve.

**Stella's POV:**

Stella watched in a mixture of anger and disgust towards Sherlock, and pity and sympathy for the children who so desperately needed his help. The boy's face suddenly drained of all colour as the realisation that Sherlock would not help them sank in, and the girl looked like she was about to cry.

In her training as a martial arts expert, Stella had also subconciously developed her observation and emotion-detecting skills. These had, unsurprisingly, also been sharpened in the presence of Sherlock. But this was of no great usefulness to Stella as she saw the boy's fragile confidence falter and crumple; the fact that this boy had just seen his last chance fade away was obvious to anyone who had eyes. But the girl was different. The boy was proud and tough, and it was clear that he would not ever cry or show such obvious emotion as crying if he could help it, but the girl wasn't like that. She was proud, yes, but she was made of fire. The boy was more like rock: down to earth, solid, tough and patient. He could stand tall and resist, and would only crack at the very last minute under extreme pressure. Like rock, he could warm at a ray of sunlight, like a hand stretched out to him to help. But the very essence of the girl was fire; ready to laugh and cry at every moment, sly, suspicious, but also brave and... well... fiery. Stella could see perfectly well that she would leap into battle without caring and could suddenly burst out without warning. 'A strong pair.' thought Stella admiringly.

Stella snapped out of her reflexions when Lyra looked at her, looking so helpless that she couldn't help but be moved by it. The girl's eyes were bright with unshed tears, too proud to let them fall. Stella glanced at Will again. He was pale, his jaw set, but his eyes betrayed the loss and desperation he felt. Stella suddenly felt a pull in her guts; She was surprised, she'd never felt anything of the sort before. But this pull, it felt like... instinct. It felt like it was trying to pull her in the right direction. She'd never really believed in the supernatural, or anything that was even just a little out of the ordinary, but at that moment, Stella just knew that she was supposed to help these children. How or why, she couldn't tell, but the pull in her gut simply told her to shut up and listen.

Not quite knowing what to say or do, Stella awkwardly put a hand on each child's shoulder, trying to give them as much comfort as possible in such a small gesture.

Beneath her fingers, she could feel Will tense at her touch, and she quickly removed her hand, afraid that she had done something that would unsettle or anger him.

Will must have sensed her discomfort, because he turned and gave her a small apologetic smile. Stella didn't need anything else, she just smiled back and lightly touched his cheek.

"I suppose 'sorry' doesn't make up for Sherlock's outrageous behaviour." Stella said in a low and embarrassed voice, her face showing her sympathy for these children.

They didn't try to deny it; Lyra gave a tiny shrug, and Will just looked back at the door.

Stella sighed, what could she do to help them? Judging from the small recount they had told Sherlock, it was specifically work for a detective, not a martial arts teacher.

'However' she thought with a smile, 'this martial arts teacher just happens to be friends with the only consulting detective in the world, and he has taught her a few tricks up his sleeves, such as deduction, finesse, and disguise.'

"Will, Lyra..." she began in a hesitant voice, "I don't know how, I don't know why, but I will help you. I don't have Sherlock's flawless deduction powers, or his observation skills, or his knowledge, and certainly not his genius, but I'm ready to do anything within my power to help you get back your stolen item."

The two children looked up at her, each with a different expression on their face. Lyra had her eyes wide open, a new spark of hope in them, bright as a flame; it was clear that she would accept any sort of help, as long as she had some sort of chance of getting her object back. Will, however, was looking at Stella with one of the most complex expressions she had ever witnessed on a human face. It was one of disbelief, hope, some suspiscion, and surprisingly, a little disappointment. Stella could understand the disbelieving and hopeful look, but she had no clue as to why he would feel disappointment. Was he perhaps expecting something else? As for the suspicion, Stella could only wonder at what sort of life this child must have lived till now to see danger at each corner in life.

Stella smiled encouragingly at them and turned around to shout over her shoulder.

"John! Could you come down here a minute, please?"

**Will and Lyra's POV:**

Will felt his heart speed up as he heard Stella call the man he had been waiting to see all day. A man who had known his father, who had been saved by him. Would recognize John Parry in his son's features? Would he help them? Or would he reject them like Sherlock Holmes did?

Will and Lyra were still nearly speechless after the fantastic amount of rudeness Sherlock had shown them. They had been prepared for a refusal of help, but never even suspected being dismissed so coldly and abruptly. Oh, the horrible moment when they had seen their last hope slip away through their fingers, unable to do anything about it, leaving them petrified and desperate.

There was a clatter comig down the stairs, and then a man came into the room. He was in his mid to late forties, a smaller than average structure, but strong and stocky, with the obvious military posture that all soldiers had. His eyes were keen and bright, and seemed to the children that they had seen sometimes too much in his life. An expression of curiosity and mild surprise was on his face as he approached his flatmate and looked over at his visitors.

"What seems to be the matter, Stel?" he asked interestedly, his eyes fixed on Will's face, as though trying to read some message from it.

Stella smiled at him gratefully, visibly relieved that at least one member of this household had some manners.

"This is Will and Lyra. They need our help over retrieving an object that was stolen from them. They were originally here for Sherlock, but he of course managed to act as the greatest sod of the world – scratch that, he _is_ the greatest sod in the world – and turned them down as one would a fly." she expained to him, with considerable bitterness in the last bit.

John didn't say anything for a few seconds, but continued to scrutinize Will, a growing disbelief and amazement on his face.

"What's your surname?" he asked finally, in a voice cracked with emotion.

"My name is William Parry. Son of John Parry. You knew my father." Will said simply, his eyes never leaving John's face.

John's mouth dropped open slightly, a strange mix of surprise and sorrow mingling on his bewildered features.

"You're... John's son? John Parry's son?"

Will nodded.

John Watson took a sharp intake of breath.

"Does this mean... he's dead?" he asked in a low, hushed voice. "I told John that he would come to me if he ever needed help, and that I would hold true to my word for his descendence if he were unable to."

Will too took a deep breath.

"We don't know. He disappeared ten years ago, he never got found. He vanished in the Arctic along with a few of his fellow explorers. You'd left some time before he did, because of your fall."

John bowed his head and stayed still for a full minute. At last, he raised his face again, this time with sorrow spread across it.

"I'm very sorry to hear that. Your father was, or is maybe, a man I greatly like and admire. I would have done anything for him, I owe him my life."

Will nodded gravely.

"I know," he said. "That's why we've come to you for help."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Stella was looking at them alternatively, confusion written all over her face. What on Earth was all this about? She looked up at John, her mouth open with a multitude of questions on the tip of her tongue.

Before she could get them all out however, she was rudely interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing. Without noticing Stella's bemused expression, John made for the door, while she and the children stayed in the kitchen.

The young woman eyed the two, still not quite believing the exchange she had witnessed between her friend and this boy. What was all this business about? She had known that John had gone for an expedition in Alaska, but she never would have imagined... this! Now she understood Will's expression of disappointment earlier: he had ben hoping to see John.

"Well," she said at last, a slight smile on her face, "it seems that you two do have quite a mystery around you after all."

Both children grinned, and Lyra gave her a _you have no idea_ look. Before she could reflect on that however, a voive floated in from the entrance hallway, making Lyra freeze.

"Good afternoon," said the smooth and horribly familiar voice. "You are, I presume, John Watson?"

**Will and Lyra's POV:**

Will and Lyra looked each other, and for the second time of their lives, but not for the last time, saw their own expression on the other's face. This time though, it was one of fear, horror, and panic. Why was Sir Charles here? Will, who had yet to meet the man, only guessed it was him because of Lyra's stricken face.

"What do we do?" said Lyra in a terrified whisper, ignoring Stella's increasingly bemused expression.

Will, his face pale and drawn again, turned to Stella.

"Please," he began, his voice tight and urgent. "Please don't let him see us. If he does, we're doomed."

Stella looked at them to and fro curiously. Will expected to have to answer a torrent of unwanted and extremely untimely questions, but to his surprise, she just touched his cheek and lifted his face slightly. Now her eyes bored into his own, and he wondered what she was about to say. She seemed to look straight into his mind, probing his very soul, as if trying to extract the meaning of life from the back of his eyes. But her face showed no suspicion or annoyance. At last, she looked away from Will and turned to Lyra instead, as if judging her as well. She nodded slightly and, bringing a finger to her lips, motioned for them to follow her.

They went after her across the kitchen and stared as she opened a broom cupboard. She noticed their doubtful expresions and smiled reassuringly at them.

"Don't worry" she whispered, "this cupboard can hold both John and me when we're hiding from Sherlock, whenever he's looking for volunteers to experiment on. It will be perfectly big enough for you both. You can even open it a tiny bit to see and hear what's going on. I'll make sure he comes in here but doesn't see you. We'll talk about everything once he's gone."

Will nodded and Lyra smiled at her gratefully. They both clambered into the cupboard, where they indeed discovered that it was bigger than it looked, though it was still cramped. Stella shut the door after them, careful to let it open a fraction so that they could keep up with anything that happened outside.

The whole process, from Will's ask for help to the shutting of the door, had taken only a few moments, and now the children could hear two sets of footsteps climbing the stairs and entering the front room. Lyra leaned towards Will.

"This reminds me of when I hid inside the wardrobe in the Master's drawing room. Lord Asriel had also made sure that I could see everything." she whispered almost inaudibly.

Will nodded and put a finger to his lips, pointing with his other hand towards the door. John and the unexpected (and particularly unwanted) visitor had now entered the room. Will and Lyra could see Stella leaning against the table, facing the others.

**General POV:**

John spoke first.

"Oh, there you are Stella. This gentleman's come to see Sherlock. I told him he'd gone out, but he said that he could afford to wait."

Stella nodded and strode over to the not-yet visible person that Will and Lyra knew was Latrom.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Stella, Mr...?" she asked, her voice containing only the very slightest amount of suspicion, inaudible to everyone except Will and Lyra.

"Latrom. Sir Charles Latrom." replied the man the children had come to loathe in his smooth-as-honey voice. "The pleasure is all mine, Miss... may I call you Stella?"

"You may." came the woman's reply. "May I then ask in return what the object of your visit would be?"

"Of course, but it is a rather long tale. Could I perhaps abuse of your hospitality and sit at the table?"

The residents of 221B Baker Street nodded, and Sir Charles Latrom came into the children's view. Will saw that he was as smooth and immaculate as Lyra had descrided, exuding an aura of power and authority that he could feel even from the inside of the cupboard. He also saw John sending Stella a questioning look, no doubt silently asking her where their previous visitors had gone. Stella flashed a warning look at him and shook her head very slightly. John must have had some sort of experience in this, for he didn't press the matter and instead asked their 'guest' if he would be having some tea, and Latrom said he would, if possible, that was very kind of him.

Stella sat (deliberately or not?) in the chair directly opposite the children. When the tea was done, John sat on the side next to her, so that he faced Latrom, with Stella between them. If this had been planned, Will was very impressed. Lyra and him now had a perfect view of the kitchen, could easily follow the conversation, and could observe each of the participants clearly.

"Now, Sir... Charles Latrom, is it? Would you please tell us as to why you are here? John did mention it was to see Sherlock , but I fear that he is currently on a case and has gone out to investigate some matter of relevance to it. Would you trust John and I to hear you tale first?"

Will and Lyra saw a fleeting look of hesitation flash over Sir Charles' face, but it quickly became polite and amiable again.

"Of course," he said warmly. "I have heard of the exploits of Sherlock Holmes, but I also know that he wouldn't gave achieved so much lately without his two associates."

John nodded and smiled as he accepted the compliment, but Stella remained stoic. Sir Charles had probably noticed, because he then smoothed out an imaginary crease on his trousers and leaned over, folding his hands on the acid-stained table, all business.

"This is no doubt going to be a very strange tale to your ears, though I assure you that every word that I am about to say will be meant and will have been well-considered."

"The stranger your story is, the better it will be for Sherlock," said John with a smile, seemingly obvious to Stella's slight stiffness and suspicion towards their visitor.

"Indeed, that is what I have heard. It seems that every mystery in the world crumbles at the feet of Sherlock Holmes." replied Latrom politely.

Stella tapped her fingers impatiently on the table. John glanced at her in surprise; normally she was the most patient of the three, and usually the most polite and courteous as well. Why was she behaving like this? John filed the information away for analysing later, but a nagging little sensation at the back of his mind made him a little uneasy.

**Sherlock's POV:**

Sherlock strode down Baker Street, his mind still focused on his current case. The new evidence and clues he had found had been a success, as usual, but now a new issue had presented itself: how had the culprit managed to get inside without setting the pharmacy's alarms off? They all had infra-red beams pointing all over the place: in front of the door, on the windowsills, behind the counter, across the door that lead to the storeroom behing the shop...

Sherlock's mind continued to weave ideas and theories at lightning-speed, whilst its owner arrived at 221B's small porch. He ran up them and pushed the door open. He marched across the hall and started to climb the stairs. Then something caught his well-practised eye: the faint imprint of a shoe on the carpet. Sherlock frowned; they weren't his, they weren't John's, they weren't Stella's, they certainly weren't Mrs Hudson's or those pesky kids', they were at least three sizes too big. This could only mean one thing: He'd had a client while he'd been out. Had he gone yet? Sherlock scanned the staircase. No, he was still here, there weren't any similar prints going down.

He bent down to have a closer look. Automatically, his deduction senses switched on. _A man, _the imprint was too big to be a woman's;_ slightly over-weight, _ the imprint was still visible on the carpet so it had to have been pressed on with a great deal of weight; _very rich, _ the pattern of the sole was used only for a very particular, very expensive brand of shoes;_ used to having his own way, with some sense of authority,_ the imprint showed some sign of having been re-tailored, something that no self-concious shoe-maker would do, and therefore would have needed a lot of persuasion to make him do it.

'Oh brilliant,' thought Sherlock, 'another pompous old fool, for whom John and Stella will nag me afterwards for not being polite to. God knows just how many old men I'm willing to listen to, though, if it means I can get a case.'

Sherlock climbed the rest of the stairs, satisfied that at least part of the worldwide population was co-operating with his brilliant, but starved brain.

Arrived at the top of the stairs, Sherlock pushed open the door, shrugged off his scarf and coat, and strode over to the kitchen, where he knew John and Stella would have lead the client. This had been the normal procedure ever since Stella had arrived, because there weren't enough comfortable chairs in the living room now, and he didn't want anyone nicking his usual seat in his armchair.

**Will & Lyra's POV:**

Will and Lyra, still hidden in the cupboard, heard the front door open and close again with a bang. 'Oh,' thought Lyra worriedly, 'Sherlock Holmes is back.' Little did she know that precisely the same thought was crossing Stella's mind at the same moment, only with a sense of relief.

From their hidden point of view, Will and Lyra watched as the kitchen door slid open, and as the man that had come so close to destroying their last hopes stepped inside.

Sir Charles Latrom stood up, his aura of power washing over the inhabitants of the small room as he did so.

"Ah, you must be Mr Sherlock Holmes, I imagine." he said pleasantly in his deep, mellow voice, holding out a hand for Sherlock to shake.

The latter did so, after a fraction of a second's pause.

"Yes, indeed. Might I enquire as to your own name?"

'He can be so polite if he wants to' thought Lyra bitterly.

Latrom introduced himself, than lowered his powerful frame back into his chair. Sherlock took the remaining seat, positioning it so as to face Latrom, and also, coincidentally, so that the children could see the side of his face. He leaned on the table, hands clasped in an almost prayer-like fashion, surveying his new potential client with interest and, was it possible, a little suspicion?

The object of his observaton, however, did not seem to have noticed. He was rummaging through a sleek black leather briefcase. Lyra saw Stella shooting warning glances at her flatmates. John replied with a puzzled frown and a shrug, but Sherlock appeared to ignore her, and kept his gaze fixed on Latrom.

Sir Charles finally retieved a pristine, almost ironed-looking, copy of a newspaper. He smoothed it slowly on the kitchen table, and pushed it over towards Sherlock. The latter's eyes flickered down and studied the headline of the newspaper. His expression didn't change, but he unclasped his hands and pulled the paper nearer to him. He scanned over what Lyra supposed were the first few lines of the article. When his eyes rested on the part the children could discern as the picture, Lyra felt a stab of fear as she thought she saw his eyes flicker almost imperceptibly over to their cupboard.

Beside her, Lyra heard Will gasp, and she turned her head towards him, but was compelled to look back in front of her when Sir Charles suddenly spoke again.

"I don't suppose you've heard about what happened a few days ago in Winchester, Mr Holmes?... No? Well, this article ought to make things clear. As you can see, a boy murdered a man by pushing him down the stairs. There is a picture of him there. The boy's name is William Parry. He's been missing ever since."

Now Lyra understood Will's gasp; he'd understood sooner than she had what Latrom was showing Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, Lyra felt bad for Will, but what was more on her mind now was, how on earth were they supposed to get Sherlock's help now that Latrom had told him of Will's past?

During Latrom's explanations and Lyra's train of thoughts, Sherlock had continued reading the article, and had now finished it. If he had recognised Will ('Which he almost certainly has' thought Lyra), he gave no sign of it.

"If the mystery is solved, what is it you are expecting me to do, Sir Charles?" asked Sherlock coolly.


	7. Chapter 7 - Temporary Message

**Chapter 7 – Temporary Message**

**Hey guys! Just a small foreword, because stupid me, I always forget to put an author's note each time I update. OK, this is it: I updated Chapter 6, the actual story. I had put a temporary message earlier in the year, to warn you that this would be on hiatus until I found my inspiration again.**

**Anyway, it's there now, so please, please, please review, send me your thoughts and ideas, tell me if there are any mistakes, and share what you'd like to happen next!**

**Also, my apologies for Chapter 6, not much happens in it, so I'm going to make the next one stuffed with information, decisions, and general onwardness to make up for it.**

**Thank you so much to all those fabulous people who rviewed me when I said I had writer's block, they were amazing! Thanks to 3Alsaska3, Mitelia, and especially FlyingLovegood123 for their excellent tips and ideas, they were a great help!**

**This is also to warn you not to expect anything for a few months: I want to finish this story completely before I start updating again. This is in case I get anything wrong; because this story is turning out to get more complicated than I had originally thought. So I need to think this out, iron out the problems, type it up, _then _update. Please don't hate me! I _have _got my inspiration back, just not my brain... or something.**


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